* * * *

I’ve donned my give-up-on-love sweatpants, put on my favorite Disney movie and hunkered down on my couch for a quality pity party. I’m half a carton of ice cream into my wallowing when my phone rings. I don’t bother to check the number before I answer it.

“Did you get me fired?” a vaguely familiar manly voice calls out across the line. No hello. No how are you.

“I think you have the wrong number,” I tell the guy as I am about to hang up.

“No, I don’t, Elizabeth. Answer my question. Did you get me fired?” His voice has taken a sharper tone than it had this afternoon, but I recognize it. My brain clicks the pieces into place and I sit up, almost falling off the couch.

“Austin,” I screech into the phone. My heart is racing, knowing he’s on the other end of the line.

“Elizabeth.” He sounds annoyed, but more than that he sounds exhausted. “I really need this job.”

“I didn’t get you fired,” I answer flatly.

“So it’s a coincidence I got fired a few hours after you proposition me?” His voice isn’t playful or teasing. It’s angry and confrontational. I know I didn’t do anything wrong and yet I’m combative.

“Yes. I wouldn’t know how to get you fired even if I wanted to,” I answer honestly, and yes, maybe I’m a little snooty.

“You certainly seemed to know a lot about me this afternoon.”

I cringe, knowing I give off a quasi-stalker vibe.

“No more than anyone else with access to the Internet could find out. Maybe you should change your Facebook privacy settings and delete your Instagram account,” I answer. Sure, I propositioned him a few hours ago, but I’m not malicious or manipulative. I don’t want to trap him into going along with my crazy idea. There’s a long pause while we both stubbornly refuse to say more. I don’t know what to say, but for some reason I’m glad he hasn’t hung up yet.

“I can probably get you another job. A real one, I mean,” I finally offer, knowing I could get him a job as a night janitor or something in one of my father’s buildings if I asked. It would be an awkward phone call—I’ve never asked my father for a favor before, so I’d have to face some questions—but if it stopped this churning in the pit of my stomach it would be worth it.

“And why would you do that?”

“Because you said you needed one.” I let my tone add the implied duh.

“Seems counterproductive for you, given our last conversation.”

“I don’t want to be some guy’s last resort!” I let out an aggravated sigh, pissed at myself for oversharing. “Do you want the job or not?” I snap at him. I’m annoyed and frustrated. And excited.

“Which one?” The teasing in his voice assures me he has that stupid smirk on his face. Picturing it makes my blood boil and my knees weak.